The studio smelled like turpentine, old wood, and something darker like secrets left to dry on canvas.I stood in the middle of the large loft, my hands clasped tightly in front of me, trying not to fidget. The late afternoon light poured through the tall, dusty windows, cutting sharp golden beams across the floor. Elias Voss was late. Or maybe he was watching me. With him, it was always hard to tell.When he finally appeared from the back room, wiping his hands on a stained rag, my breath caught. He was taller than I remembered from the gallery opening broader, more worn. Early forties, with messy dark hair streaked with premature silver, and eyes the color of storm clouds over the ocean. There was a hardness in his face, like life had carved away everything soft.“You’re late,” he said. His voice was low, rough, like he didn’t use it often.“I’m sorry, Mr. Voss. Traffic was—”“Elias,” he corrected, cutting me off. He circled me slowly, eyes moving over my body the same way they stu
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